The Honor of Honorine
by Toff
Summary: I actually wrote about a non-Enjolras charachter, and Bahorel at that! This is about Bahorel and his past and stuff, and a person named Honorine.


All you, intoxicated with Apollo and wine alike, seem to be void of any memories. What runs through your minds then; but pictures and dreams of a man unreachable, lost in his dreams? Sometimes I wonder if I am the only member present who wouldn't kiss his feet. You all would. You would die to kiss his feet.  
  
But memories. I have memories. My most vivid memory is of my darling wife, christened Honorine by the angels' song. Honorine moved gracefully, with all the air and mannerism of a single rose petal in an updraft. He hair, like spun gold, swung this way and that, a kind of pendulum. Honorine's eyes were brown, only brown, but to me they were gold; sliver. They danced with mischievousness. They sang of joy. They sang.  
  
That was back when I was young, fierce, angry. Everything Honorine did bothered me to no avail. Poor angel, she tried so very hard to please me, yet she was not suited to the life of a servant. Her former self had been dreamy and detached, able to get lost in a world of her own creation when the world around her became too much to bear.  
  
Honorine's dreaming made her slow, and her slowness made her late, late to dinner, late to bed. She was even late to wake up in the morning. Honorine always loved to sleep. It was the only place where it was safe for her to dream.  
  
I took away her imaginary worlds, her invented friends. The mischief and the puckish air that once lit up her face melted away, and in its place, there was hollow brown. People used to comment on her eyes, they seem to suck the soul out of you, they'd say. I wouldn't know. Honorine wasn't allowed to look me in the eyes.  
  
I remember most of all the way she danced. Honorine danced everywhere. Walking bored her to no extent. She waltzed to the kitchen, and twirled into the dining room. She was so light on her toes, it was as if she were made of light.  
  
The dancing danced away after her eyes turned to stone. Honorine trudged after I took away her dancing. Beat it out of her. Honorine clomped to the kitchen now, and dragged herself to the dining room, where I was seated. I was angry, furious; dinner was supposed to be ready when I got home. I slaved away all day, so I thought. I know now that Honorine was the slave. My slave, who now carried a tray of duck.  
  
I yelled at her, and startled her. Then she tripped.  
  
Duck flew into the air, landing on the floor with a loud "thwap." The loaf of bread, which was burned, dived after trays and saucers of various dips and soups. It all lay there on the dining room floor in a huge, wasted mess. Honorine sniffled. She had spent her entire day working on that. She had wanted me to be happy.  
  
Honorine had managed to save the bread, which she meekly handed to me. The echoing hollowness in her eyes was replaced with fear and pleading. "I break my back from sun up to sun down," I bellowed, raising my fist. "And all you have to show your gratitude is a crust of bread you couldn't cook properly!"  
  
"I prepared a duck as well." Honorine tittered, looking at the floor. She puts me in the mind now of a fawn cornered by a wolf.  
  
"Like Hell you did!" I snarled.  
  
My fists rained down on her like shots, like ammunition. She let out a tiny, muffled yelp each time my merciless fists connected with her body, which was now crumpled in a corner, sobbing as if her hear would break. If I hadn't taken her heart.  
  
By the time I had let out most of my anger, and once I was too hungry to continue, she wasn't moving. I had killed her dreams, her dances and now her soul. The moment I saw her lying there, unmoving, I realized how much I really loved her. If only I'd showed her. If only.  
  
They refused to charge me with murder. I even turned myself in. Honorine was my wife, they told me. It wasn't up to the law what I did with her. I began to detest the law, the law that couldn't avenge the death of my only.  
  
That's why I became a member of this doomed, cursed group.  
  
Perhaps we'll avenge you yet, my angel. In this new world of Apollo's, all are equal. Man, woman, poor, bourgeoisie. All drink from the same pool. In Enjolras's new world, I would be hung for your death. We'll avenge you yet, Honorine.  
  
Until then, my friends, I sit here in the dust and must. I envy you, poor memory-less fools. If only I had no memories, too. Joly wastes his days fretting about cholera, yet, to me, memories are the only fatal disease. 


End file.
